The Red Hand
by Keyboard Cabaret
Summary: With Sherlock out of action and Lestrade working against him, John is alone and running out of time. He needs to crack this case, but is he blind to the solution which lies in the blood on his hands?
1. Prologue

**Welcome to another story! Or welcome back! Going for another multi-chapter story (totally unrelated to my first one). This is a short little prologue-y short of thing to kick start the story :) **

**Summary: With Sherlock out of action and Lestrade working against him, John is alone and running out of time. He needs to crack this case, but is he blind to the solution which lies in the blood on his hands?  
>Rated T for Violence and possible language. <strong>

**Reviews and comments greatly appreciated xx**

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><p>The first thing I was aware of was a splitting headache.<p>

I kept my eyes closed, a hand going to my forehead in a futile attempt to get rid of the pain. I pushed myself up slightly so my shoulders were leaning on the wall, trying to shake the dizziness that – hang on, Wall?

And pavement, now I thought about it.

Had I passed out drunk somewhere? Wait, impossible. I hadn't drunk heavily in months. Gotten into a fight? Could explain the headache. Confused, I opened my eyes, momentarily blinded by the harsh light of the sun.

The first thing I saw was the blood on my hands.

No, not just on my hands, everywhere – splattered on my jacket and shoes and pooled on the ground beneath me. I scrambled to my feet, momentarily surprised to find no pain in doing so. Not my blood then.

My eyes returned to the dried blood on the ground where I had been lying and the large splashes that led down the alley. My gaze automatically following it, fairly sure I didn't want to know what was at the end.

I found the end of the trail a lot sooner than I'd have liked.

On the ground only a few feet from me, beaten bloody and unconscious, lay Sherlock Holmes.

No...

No! I staggered back, hitting the wall and half sliding, half falling to the ground. The pounding in my head had doubled. But I hadn't – last night, I – I'd been... I'd... I couldn't remember.

I couldn't remember anything I'd done beyond about 10 last night. I think my heart may actually have stopped for a second.

I was still gasping for air when the police arrived on the scene.


	2. When Hope Ain't Enough

**Hi there! thanks for coming back, your reappearance has been noted for... something.**

**From here on out, I appologise in advance for my huge lack of medical/scientific/lawful knowledge, which will probably become apparent quite frequently throughout the story.  
>Also, I own nothing. I just abuse the characters for my own sadistic pleasure. Promise I'll put them back how I found them x<strong>

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 2: When Hope Ain't Enough.<strong>

_I had left the flat around 7:00 pm, heading for a pub that Lestrade had recommended. I was accompanied by Lestrade and a few Yard officers I didn't know so well. I had an early shift at the surgery the next day, which meant I'd stayed away from alcohol. That was also the reason that I left early, around 9:30. It was about 10 that I was stepping off the bus (having blown all hope of a taxi by spending ridiculous amounts on pool games while at the pub in the futile hope of beating Lestrade). I was walking down a deserted street, and it had started raining. Then..._

Then nothing. My memory goes completely black until the next morning, when I wake up covered in Sherlock's blood.

It sounds fake even to my ears. I could tell Lestrade wasn't buying it in the slightest.

"You were found at the crime scene, with Sherlock's blood on your hands. Your fingerprints were all over the alleyway, and on the knife we discovered hidden under the bins nearby, the blade of which matches Sherlock's wounds. You can provide no alibi..."

"So what was my motive? Why did I hang around at the scene, waiting for you lot to arrive? Why didn't I just kill him anyway? Dammit, Lestrade!" the desperation was starting to seep into my voice, "You can't really believe I did it." I looked at him, trying to find something that would give me hope. Instead he just looked exhausted and somewhat horrified. The look he'd had ever since he arrived on the crime scene.

"Take him to the cell."

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><p>I was pacing back and forth in my cramped little cell, running a hand endlessly through my hair. The initial panic had subsided, only to be replaced by a dull, gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach. I hadn't done it, I <em>hadn't<em>. But with every passing second that I failed to remember the gut-crushing uncertainty grew worse.

Suddenly the door clanged open, the sound echoing off the walls. I started, jerked out of my reverie. Coming through the doorway, looking refined and unflappable as ever, was Mycroft Holmes.

Oh dear.

"Mycroft..." I started, but he held up a hand in a _shut up now_ gesture. I shut up.

"I have been talking with Inspector Lestrade," his expression was unreadable, but the tone of his voice was unforgiving, "he seems rather unconvinced by your... _amnesia_ story."

"It's not a story."

He raised an eyebrow, "I must say the evidence weighs rather heavily against you. Especially the weapon left at the scene, sloppy of you."

"How can you say that?"

"Of course it will make a change from the insanity plea, it'll cause quite a stir, I suppose that's what you want –"

"I didn't do it!" I was shouting now, real anger rising for the first time in hours, "I know I didn't."

The look he gave me verged on disparaging, "You can't remember what you did."

"You don't get it do you? I was a soldier, Mycroft, I fought in a war. I lost count of how many I killed, how many I failed to save. Everyone I knew out there died. I came home with a dodgy leg and no one turn to – I was alone! Then Sherlock just waltzes into my life and suddenly there's someone there, someone who's crazier than me. We understood each other, right from the start, you saw it yourself. I trust him, Mycroft, do you know how long it's been since I've trusted _anyone_? He gave me a life worth living, and you're honestly standing here saying I'd throw all that away? Hurting him would kill me and you know it. I didn't do it because there is no way that I would _ever_ be able to!" the last was shouted, my anger bursting through. I stood breathing hard, my fists clenched, glaring up at Mycroft. He regarded me for a few moments that seemed to last forever. Then, without a word, he turned and left my cell, the door clanging shut behind him, leaving me alone once more.

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><p>The following night I finally managed to sleep.<p>

The night after another day of questioning. Lestrade thought I was guilty. I could tell from the hint of betrayal permenantly etched into his expression, the way he wasn't even trying to find other solutions any more.

I am innocent. I know I am. But even so, there is a tiny part of me that sees my blank memory and says _...what if?_

No. No no no. The fear of not knowing has come close to breaking me as it is – I was a complete wreck the night Mycroft came to me. I know that I if I listen to the voice, even for a second, it'll undo me completely.

But after two days of all this, I was physically drained and emotionally exhausted, and I found sleep at last. It wasn't pleasant – it has never taken much to bring back the nightmares.

But late into the night I was awoken by something else. The door opening once more, quieter but still loud enough to wake me from restless sleep. I jumped up to be greeted by Mycroft once more, closely followed by a prison guard. Neither were very high on my list of people I wanted to see.

I went to ask what he was doing here, but he cut across me, "Sherlock has fallen into a coma. It is unlikely that it is fatal, but he shall certainly be out for some time."

My insides felt like lead, "Mycroft..." he silenced me, "You are certain of your innocence?" his voice had become low and urgent.

"Of course I am."

He stepped out the way of the door, "Then prove it. No one else is going to. I've managed to buy you a week. After that I can't stop the Yard coming after you again."

I stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds. Then I gathered myself, nodded once, and followed the guard out the door.

It occurred to me as I was running out into the night, that – as Sherlock's brother – he probably wanted me to be innocent as much as I did.

I was on the alert all the way home, hyper aware of every passing car and shadow. I didn't relax until I reached Baker Street, letting myself in as quietly as possible. Once in proper light I checked my watch – 1:43 in the morning. There was nothing I could do until the sun came up.

I showered, found a change of clothes and forced myself to eat, trying to avoid all the Sherlock related debris around the flat. Getting emotional now wouldn't help.

After that there was nothing to do but wait for daylight. Then it would start: one week to find Sherlock's attacker and prove my innocence, or I go back to jail a convict.

Once the sun comes up, the game begins.

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><p><strong>Good luck review for John? Come on, I know you don't wanna let dear Johnny-boy down...<strong>

**xxx**


	3. And So It Begins

**CHAPTER 3: And So It Begins**

The crime scene was the first place I went.

Old crime scene. By now of course all the blood and evidence had been cleared away. There would be little to find here. That didn't stop me looking.

I searched the entire alley as thoroughly as I felt possible. It was small, dark and filthy – clearly way out of the way of any prying cameras and unlikely to have anyone walking down it willingly. The perfect place for a crime – whoever had done this had really known their stuff. Of course, after so long of fighting the city's criminals, I had a pretty good knowledge of the kind of places where crooks could operate safely. I decided to focus very hard on not thinking about that.

My search was dishearteningly fruitless. I wished (not for the first time) that Sherlock were here. I could just imagine him listening to my thoughts and scoffing at them. "Good work, John." he would say, "Well, you missed everything significant, but..." I would sigh in resignation, well used to this by now. Then I would watch as he flew into every corner of the alley, reeling off a string of seemingly fantastical deductions about the culprit, the motive, the shop the murder weapon was sold at, and the birthday of the killer's mother. I often tried to be blasé about his conclusions. I all ways failed.

I suddenly realised that I could look all I liked – I wouldn't find anything useful here.

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><p>I went next to the street that was my last memory. Oakham Crescent: a tidy, respectable street. Every house was polished and orderly, with perfect front lawns and a distinct lack of bubblegum stuck to the pavement.<p>

I started where I had turned onto the street two nights ago. _Shilty's_, a small newsagents stood on the corner, surrounded by houses. It was this way I had come, trudging down the street in the dimming light. I remember the rain, though all traces of it were gone – in the last few seconds of memory there is rain, sudden and heavy. Is this what it had come to? I could remember the weather but I couldn't remember if I'd assaulted my best friend or not? No, fuck that, I _hadn't_. But back here and still unable to remember...

No. There was a solution to this, and damn I was going to find it.

I stopped halfway down the street, right out side a clearly abandoned house. Moss was growing on the walls, several windows were boarded up, and the brickwork was in a state of serious disrepair. It stood out a mile next to the trim respectability of the surrounding buildings. I looked it over, my eyes roving from the over-grown front lawn to the haphazardly tiled roof. Then something caught my eye: sticking out of a top floor window, something that I couldn't identify from my position, but looking strikingly new and shiny. I stood for a few minutes staring at it, before kicking the gate open and heading for the door.

I was surprised when the front door swung open with very little restraint. Pulling it back I examined the lock – it was deeply scratched and partly broken, as if someone had forced it open before. This was getting interesting. I pushed the door open again, and stepped inside.

The hallway I entered was bare and almost grey with dust. The stairs stood in front of me, and another door to the right. I remained where I was, listening for any sounds. When I heard nothing, I headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time to the second floor. Two rooms overlooked the street, one bare as the lower floor, the second housing the contraption I had seen outside. Approaching it, it looked to be some sort of sprinkler, with a pipe leading into a plastic box that sat on the floor, just to the left of the window. It was mostly empty, but at the bottom the was a small amount of clear liquid.

I examined it for a moment, then – fully aware of the potential stupidity of what I was doing – I dipped a finger into the liquid, and brought it to my mouth.

Water. As far as I could tell.

I scooped up a bigger handful and swallowed it. Definitely water.

Sighing, I got to my feet and went for the stairs. So much for creepy empty houses having clues.

I was wrapped in thought as I headed down the stairs, so didn't notice the snag in the carpet until I tripped over it.

I stumbled down the last step, foot landing at an odd angle. I went sideways, falling and crashing into the door I had passed on the way in. Groaning slightly, I sat up and checked my ankle: bloody painful, but undamaged. I got to my feet and was turning for the front door, when the door I had fallen into caught my eye.

Well, the room passed the door. My weight crashing into the door had knocked it open, revealing the room inside. It was like the others in many ways – empty and in need of repair. But where it differed was the dust. This room was practically dust free: the carpet and juts in the walls were mostly clean, aside from the odd sweep of grey in places. I examined the room further with no results, so stood for some time in the doorway thinking. A forced lock, a dust free room and a sprinkler pointing out of a window – Pieces of a rapidly expanding puzzle. I knew that Sherlock would have been able to fit it all together in moments, but that didn't matter: could I?

My phone buzzed, bringing me back to Earth. I fished it out, finding a text from Mycroft. I opened it:-

_I think you should see this.  
><em>_MH_


	4. Missing

**Seven reviews, all of which made my day to read. I love you all, you know that? Every single fucking one of you. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Missing<strong>

I hurried out of the house and to the end of the street, where a sleek black car was pulling up outside Shilty's. I clambered in to be greeted by Anthea, absorbed in her mobile. The moment I was inside the car pulled away, speeding off down the road.

"Anthea." I greeted her. She smiled slightly, still not looking up from her phone and replied, "Not any more."

"Oh," I turned to the window, "what is it now?"

"Hmm..." she considered this for a moment, fingers tapping furiously at her keypad, then replied decisively: "Charlie."

"Right." neither of us spoke again for the rest of the journey.

Half hour later we pulled up outside a tall building, with important looking people in suits running in and out. Charlie climbed out of the car and headed for the entrance, leaving me the catch up.

She lead me though the reception and up several floors in an oversized lift, which deposited us in a hallway. Doors were all along the walls, adorned with nameplates. We headed down the hall until we reached a door marked 'Mycroft Holmes'. Charlie knocked once and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside Mycroft was standing by a window, staring out at an excellent view of the city. He turned to greet us, "Ah, John. Thank you Charlie." she nodded, smiling slightly, and left. Once the door was closed Mycroft got straight to the point, "I have spent the morning with head of Security. About an hour ago I was granted clearance to the CCTV network records for the last week."

I looked at him, "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing conclusive." he moved to sit behind a large oak desk on which a computer rested, "However, I did come across something potentially very interesting." I went round the desk so I could see the computer screen. On it Mycroft had called up several screens of camera footage. "Oakham Crescent and some surrounding streets, on the night of the attack." he clarified, hitting a few buttons. The screen came to life: jerky, sporadic footage of a main road and Oakham Crescent, completely still apart from a harsh light spilling out of the front window of Shilty's. Back on the main road, a camera focused on a bus stop showed a parked bus ejecting a few people out into the night. Hang on...

"Is that me?" I asked, leaning in to get a better look at the screen. "Indeed." Mycroft replied studying the screen carefully from his chair, "You on your journey home that night. You walked down Oakham Crescent, yes?"

"Last thing I remember – yeah, there I am." I indicated the bottom right camera, where I had just turned onto the street, lit up by the light of the newsagents.

"Observe," Mycroft said, waving a hand at the screen, "you make your way down the street, disappearing from this camera. In less than two or three minutes you should reappear in this one" - he indicated the bottom left picture - "except..."

The picture suddenly fizzed, jumped, and went black. All the other cameras carried on in perfect order, but this one. I frowned, "Odd. Did anyone check out what had happened?"

Mycroft leant back in his chair, "People were examining it by sunrise. The hook up wire had been severed."

"Someone had taken it out deliberately?"

"Exactly. It could just be random and rather coincidental vandalism, but I don't think we should ignore it."

I left the desk went to the window, "No. I think it definitely shows something was going on that night that was best left unseen." Mycroft looked at me curiously, "You found something yourself today?"

"Of sorts." I crossed back to the desk, took the chair opposite Mycroft, and told him everything I had found in my search. He listened with a slight frown and a look of deep concentration. "Well," he said when I had finished, "this is certainly shaping up to be quite a little puzzle. But daylight is fading, I think it would be best if you went home and got some rest. There is much work ahead of us." the sun was indeed sinking rapidly below the horizon, plunging London into darkness. I stood, nodding my agreement. He opened the door for me, "Charlie is outside still, she will see you home."

"Right. And thanks, Mycroft. For helping me." it had occurred to me many times that without him I'd be in a cell now clinging to the last threads of my sanity. He looked me over, "People coming into my brothers life are rare enough. People who stay are rarer still. I make it my duty to try and keep them there."

I grinned, "Sherlock would hate you for that!"

The corners of his mouth twitched in what could have been a laugh. "No. But what he wants and what he needs have all ways been so distant. Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

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><p>221B Baker Street was big. I mean, it's always been big, especially after my old flat, but suddenly it was <em>big<em>. Big and spacious and empty. Sherlock had often flounced off at a moments notice – yes, he definitely flounces – with no explanation, not coming back for several days. I worried about him during those times, how could I not? But those times were nothing compared to knowing that Sherlock wouldn't be coming home, perhaps ever, and for all I know it was my fault and –

No. I mentally slapped myself, annoyed that my emotions were getting a hold of me so easily. Sherlock was most definitely coming home, it was in no way my fault, and Sherlock would treat such emotional susceptibility with exasperation. Well he could afford to, all ways so blasé and 'it's not my problem' about the world. Git. Arrogant, self absorbed, wonderful _git_!

I realised that this was my first time properly back at the flat since I woke at the crime scene. The night of my release I had been juggling fear and determination and hadn't been very focused on my surroundings. Now I had noticed, and as much as I went over and over the case in my head, I couldn't forget it: almost every surface and a lot of the floor was strewn with things that were so obviously Sherlock. Scattered piles of books on chemistry and bees, of all things. His half finished experiment sat on the kitchen table. What he'd been experimenting I had no idea, but it was probably ruined by now. Still, I found myself reluctant to throw it away, disgusting as it looked. An uncountable number of nicotine patches were flung about the room. I felt irritated that so many things had the nerve to parade around me, clearly laughing in my face. Bastards. I picked a small paperback book from by the sofa and flung it across the room. That would show it.

I suddenly realised what I was doing and decided I had gone mad.

I was too tired and distracted to cook, so I sifted through the junk until I located a take-out menu and ordered. Eating alone would be weird I knew, but I would just have to deal with it. I remained sprawled on the sofa until the food arrived, then escaped to my room where there would be nothing Sherlock had tampered with.

A day had gone. A whole day and I still felt lost. It suddenly dawned on my just how short a week really was. At least my day of running around and worrying had worn me out sufficiently and I wouldn't spend the night tossing. I set my alarm for early next morning before falling asleep, praying Sherlock and his bloody bee handbook couldn't find there way into my dreams.

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><p><strong>Thanks to Dinogeek for telling me how to take out a CCTV camera. I don't actually know... I would make a rubbish vandal.<strong>

**Of course, you could post a review and tell me again *hint hint bambi eyes***

**xxx**


	5. If Memory Serves

**1: I do know if it would work or not. Just accept it.  
>2: It occured to me while writing this chapter how easily this could turn into a JohnMycroft fic. It won't, but if you want to take it that way, be my guest :P  
>3: Title stolen from the song 'Beginning of the Twist' by... someone (<em>If Memory ServesThen why am I still waiting for it/To return..._) **

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 5<strong>:** If Memory Serves...**

I awoke the following day with the realisation that I had no idea what to do.

Where else was there to go? Apart from the crime scene and Oakham Crescent there was nowhere else still left in my memory that could possibly hold any answers. If this was any other case I'd be down at Scotland Yard by now asking Lestrade for something, _anything_ that might help me. I had seriously considered the possibility before remembering that Lestrade was sure of my guilt, and with the decided lack of evidence in my favour showing up down there would be a rather stupid idea. I could just imagine the look on Anderson's face if I was locked up a second time. No way was I giving him the satisfaction.

No purpose in mind and not wanting to spend any longer than necessary in the flat, I found myself wandering aimlessly around the streets, trying not to flinch whenever anyone overtook me too quickly. I was immersed in going over the facts in my head. It was unnerving that I still had no memory of the night of the attack. Surely something had to be amiss. Four days afterwards and it was still as if someone had surgically removed those hours from by brain. The last minute or so I remember crystal clear: getting off the bus, wandering down past Shilty's, along the row of houses and – bam! Nothing.

For ages I roamed around main roads and back streets trying to make sense of everything, and trying to drag my mind away from what the hell kind of state Sherlock was in right now. Mycroft had promised to tell me immediately if he made any kind of change, but that wasn't enough. Going to see him may have temporarily set my mind at rest, but somehow I didn't think my face would be welcome there right now. I would have to rely on Mycroft.

Speaking of whom...

I had rounded a corner back on to Baker Street, and could see a sleek black car parked outside 221. Deciding not to wonder about how he had gotten in, I let myself in and hurried up the stairs to find Mycroft sat quite comfortably in a chair.

"Ah, John," he greeted me as I came in, as if this was his house, "busy day?"

I groaned, collapsing into the chair opposite, "I wish. I'm lost Mycroft. Complete standstill."

"Well that is unfortunate." he replied, "Perhaps I can make you feel better. The empty house you searched yesterday, 23 Oakham Crescent?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, "What about it?"

"The woman who lives next door in number 25 has been away on holiday for the past two weeks. In the early hours of this morning she returned home to find her house had been broken into."

I sat up, "What was taken?" Mycroft looked to me, a slight glint in his eye, "Nothing. However she found in the front bedroom a very strange contraption. I believe she described it as 'Some kind of shower-head like device with a wire leading into a box'."

I sat startled for several moments, unable to think of anything to say. I finally I settled on, "How do you know all this?"

He said, "I have had Charlie monitoring all police reports and transmissions for the last few days. It is a rather unconventional method, but I felt Inspector Lestrade would be disinclined to help us. You should also know that traces of liquid were discovered in the container, but this time it isn't water."

I leaned forward eagerly, "Then what was it?". He paused, looking a touch sheepish, "We don't know yet. But it is being tested and should be identified very soon."

Well... another piece to the puzzle. But clearly someone had broken into both houses – the lock had been forced on number 23 after all – and planted the...

"Oh, I am stupid." Mycroft looked up at me, "Sorry?".

I jumped up and began pacing, "I saw it, just after I left the front room in that house: the floor was covered in dust, my footprints were clearly visible, probably still are. Who ever put that contraption there – let's face it, it's not the kind of thing you just find lying around in an empty house – must have left tracks as well! But they wanted to cover up the fact that they'd been there. So what do they do, they gather the dust from another room and use it to hide there footprints! I mean they assume that no one will go in that front room and once they've closed the door on it there safe. Dammit!" I threw myself back into the chair, "I should of known that someone else had been there."

Mycroft had been watching me carefully during my outburst, and now his mouth quirked with the ghost of a smile, "Impressive, Dr. Watson."

I sighed again, "Sherlock would have known it straight away."

"Perhaps," he agreed, "but would anyone else? Maybe my brother has been good for you after all."

Oh, he had no idea.

"Why though?" I asked, "What's the point in... any of this?". It was Mycroft's turn to sigh, "I fear I cannot tell you that. But the pieces are appearing and fitting together, slowly. We mustn't despair just yet." he rose from his seat, "And now Dr. Watson, I suggest you take one more leaf from Sherlock's book. Rest for the day, let your mind wander from the case. Sherlock often found time to concentrate on other matters aided the thought process considerably. Answers can often be found where we do not think to look."

I stood and accompanied him to the door, "Sherlock was never on such a short time limit."

"You may be right." he replied, "However, you said yourself that there is little else to turn to. By tomorrow we shall know the contents of the second container. Until then I fear we are somewhat useless."

He was right of course. As always.

So once he was gone I did my best to follow his advice, though my mind kept wandering back to the case. I amused myself with the trivial and normal, trying not to feel like I was betraying Sherlock in doing so. I had guilt enough already without adding to it.

I was out of the flat later than I anticipated, returning home late at night and crashing into bed, falling asleep the moment I was down.

I dreamed of Sherlock, and knives, and hands covered in blood.

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><p>It was mid morning by the time I awoke.<p>

I threw on clothes and hurried down stairs, in a minor panic about all the hours I could have been out investigating... something.

My panic was forgotten, however, when I clattered into the front room to find Mycroft waiting for me in the same chair he had sat in yesterday. "Good Morning Dr. Watson. I trust you slept well?"

"Err, how long have you been there?"

"I arrived at 9:30. You weren't about, so I decided to wait for you."

"You are one creepy piece of shit, you know that, right?" he smiled jovially, as if he heard such things every day. Wait, what was I thinking, he's Sherlock's brother. Of course he heard that sort of thing every day. Sherlock probably texted him stuff like it.

"I have some news I thought you should hear. The result came back from the liquid in the second container a few hours ago."

Suddenly interested, I went to my chair, "Well?"

"Chloroform."

"...Oh." Chloroform. Suddenly everything was falling into place. I sprang up and began pacing once more. "The rain, on that night, that was..."

"Indeed. Presumably they started with water to ensure you remembered it as rain, then set the chloroform on you. A dousing like that you would have been out in seconds."

That made sense, "I don't remember anything about that night because there was nothing to remember! Extra chloroform on a rag around my mouth and I would have been out as long as they wanted."

Mycroft turned to me, "And extended exposure to the toxic chemicals in chloroform would account for your headache the following morning."

I spun on the spot, My mind whirring, "While I'm out they get my fingerprints over the alley and knife. They use gloves and no one would give it a second thought. All they had to do was ambush Sherlock and..." I tailed off. It was damn clever, I had to give them that much.

And then I hit on a problem. "We still don't know who they are. They could be anywhere, hell, they could have left the country by now!"

Mycroft stood from his chair, "Entirely possible. But they may not. There is an extremely high chance that they assume you are still in jail, and that they have plenty of time. But we must work quickly."

I rubbed my eyes distractedly, forcing myself to think. "They could have knocked me out anywhere... but the went for Oakham Crescent. Maybe they operate somewhere around there?"

Mycroft nodded, as though he approved of my thinking. "The car is outside. We can be there in ten minutes."

Exactly 9 minutes and 24 seconds later, we were outside 23 Oakham Crescent. I realised that I was at a complete loss for where to start or go. "It could be any of these – could be none of them. How do we even know how to...?" my question tailed off into a frustrated sigh. I ran a hand vigorously through my hair. Mycroft stood beside me, with a much better composure but an equally worried expression. Perhaps we could –

"You again! You've got some nerve you have!"

We turned to see an old lady standing behind us. She was very precisely dressed, clearly a resident of the Crescent. She looked like she wanted to bite my head off.

"Excuse me?" I asked her. Her glare darkened, "No wonder! I saw you the other day my lad, passed clean out in the gutter you did, like some drunk! Let me tell you, this is a respectable neighbourhood, and I do not appreciate you giving it a bad name the way you did – and to have the nerve to come come back, no respect, that's what it is! I should have called the police out, it's lucky those nice boys from the shop came and took you away, not that you deserved it!"

Something in the midst of her tirade caught my attention and I cut across her, "Sorry, boys from the shop?"

"That's right." she seemed pleased that I'd mentioned them, "Young Jack and Damon who own Shilty's on the corner. Right grateful you should be to them, stopped me calling the police on you!"

My heart was hammering now, hope begging to rise in my chest. I could have hugged that old woman then, though she'd have killed me for it. I settled for a "Thank you!" yelled back over my shoulder as I turned and ran full tilt up the street. She yelled after me, "Don't let me catch you back here sonny, or I will call the police!" I could hear her muttering to herself as she walked away. Mycroft was following me somewhere behind, but I didn't have time to wait for him. I hurtled down the street back to Shilty's. How many times had I passed it in the week, never giving it a second thought? Sherlock would have gone there – he'd have probably known it from the beginning.

I reached the shop front and barrelled through the door. A scrawny young man who couldn't have been any older that 25 was behind the counter. He looked up, caught sight of me, and a look of dawning horror spread over his face. The next second a gun was in his hand and he'd opened fire.

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><p><strong>To Be Continued...<strong>

**Thoughts? Reveiws are far better than kevlar :)**


	6. Had The Reasons

**There has been some interest shown about turning this story down the John/Mycroft route (my idea, though originally I was joking). Caving to public interest, I am considering writing an alternative John/Mycroft version. I'm putting a poll on my profile - cast your vote, and if it gets enough interest, I may do it. HOWEVER I should really say: Me + Slash? You have no idea how cheesy and/or highly unrealistic it would turn out. Just warning y'all.**

**Here we are, final Chapter! This ended a lot quicker than I expected, but I have loved writing it, and I simply adore all of you who reviwed, alerted, favorited, and otherwise showed your appreciation :) **

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><p><strong>Chapter 6 – Had The Reasons<strong>

The moment I caught sight of the gun, my years of army training kicked in, and I dived out of the way behind the nearest shelf. Bullets whizzed over my head and I could here them smashing the jars on the other side of the aisle. Keeping low to the ground, I crawled to the end and wondered whether I could get past the gap between the shelves. Risky, but if I moved fast enough he might not see me in time. From the bullets flying everywhere around me, he looked to be a pretty crap shot. I might be all right.

While all this had been racing through my head, the man behind the counter had been screaming insults at me: "You bastard! I shoulda killed you while you were out! You should be rotting in jail now, you bastard!"

Amid the adrenaline spiking through me and the furious onslaught of bullets, a thought was circling round and round in my head, becoming louder with every threat screamed at me: _I didn't do it. I'm innocent. I didn't do it I didn't do it I didn't do it..._ Despite the situation, I found I couldn't stop myself from grinning.

I pulled myself into a crouch, took a deep breath, and launched myself into a roll, tumbling between the aisles and back into cover. The man with the gun screamed with rage and opened fire again, yelling over his shoulder, "Damon! Damon get out here! Damon!"

Moments later the second man arrived. He was large and thick-set, with big eyes and a tangle of jet black hair that looked like it had never seen a comb. In his hand he carried another gun, smaller and more compact. He looked to the first man – Jack, I could only assume – who jerked his head in the direction of the shelf I was behind. Then, almost is unison, they turned and began shooting.

Damon was a better shot – a _much_ better shot than Jack. But still, they were both just firing in the hope that they would hit me, or I would give myself up. At the rate they were going they would both run out of ammo in a matter of minutes. All I had to do was wait.

It took 2 minutes and 34 seconds precisely. Then I heard the click as they disabled the guns, about to reload. I jumped from cover and went for the counter.

I vaulted the desk, landing a kick to Damon's kidney before either had time to react. He doubled over and I went for Jack, aiming a blow at his nose.

He was ready for me.

He ducked out the way, then charged, his shoulder catching me under the arm and shoving me back into the wall. Before he could pull away my knee shot up, connecting with the bridge of his nose with a crunch. He staggered back crying out. I rolled, grabbed the gun from the floor where he had dropped it, and smacked the handle into his temple. He slumped to the floor unconscious, blood gushing from his nose.

Suddenly I heard a click behind me and whirled around, instinct bringing the gun up as I turned. Damon was leaning on the counter, one hand at his stomach, the other brandishing the second gun at me. He grinned a toothless grin, "You really gunna shoot me? They'll throw your pretty ass in prison for that, an' for good this time. Wanna know what'll happen to a pretty like you behind bars?"

"I don't think that will be necessary, somehow. Kindly put the gun down."

We both turned to see Mycroft standing just behind Damon. Next to him, coolly sporting a gun of her own, was Charlie. "You seem to have forgotten that your gun is rather uselessly empty, which is more than I can say for this." she flicked the gun upwards so it pointed at Damon's face. His huge eyes flickered between us, coming to the realisation that he was cornered. He swore under his breath, and dropped the gun.

"Thank you." Mycroft said, before turning to me, "These two will need confining. Charlie, I think it would help us all if Lestrade were contacted."

Charlie nodded and left the shop, leaving me and Mycroft to lead (or drag, in Jack's case) the two men to a back room, where they were bound to chairs.

We were silent for some time, Damon muttering dark oaths under his breath. Then Jack stirred and finally came to. The moment he realised he was bound he started struggling and cursing, yelling threats at us. Once he had given up, slumping back into the chair glowering darkly, Mycroft finally spoke: "I do have to wonder about the aim of this whole operation. Surely you realise that once Sherlock woke up he would track you down and Dr. Watson would be released?"

Jack spat. "Bastard had it coming. Meddler, that's what he is, fucking stickin' his nose where it don't belong."

"Ah... I see." Mycroft leant back against the wall and regarded the two men, "Jack... wouldn't be Jack Howard, would it?"

He eyed Mycroft suspiciously, "What's it to you?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

I glanced at him, "Is that important?"

"Indeed." he left the wall and began slowly pacing back and forth, "Jack Howard, brother of Will Howard, who was arrested 8 months ago for assault."

I realised, "We were on that case. Sherlock brought him in himself. This is a revenge?"

"Arrogant pricks, the both of you. Needed to be taught a lesson. Stichin' you up was Damon's idea"

Damon grinned, "Swung us the Chloroform too. Got a mate in the medicine business who owed me a favour."

Mycroft looked thoughtful, "But why leave Sherlock..." he stopped, a look of realisation spreading over his face, "Ah, you meant to kill Sherlock, but you were interrupted before you could finish the job."

I fought back a wince, surprised he could speak with such nonchalance. Jack's scowl grew even darker, "fuckin' coppers, weren't it? We got a mate to keep a look out, 'e tipped us off tha' they were near. We got away, caused a distraction elsewhere so they wouldn't find our little scene too soon, but we never got the chance to go back. But we figured we'd done enough to kill him, least make 'im brain dead. Might 'ave been better, see 'ow the fucker liked it." he spat again.

Mycroft stepped smartly out the way, beginning to look rather smug, "Well I'm afraid to say that Sherlock is expected to make a full recovery. Thank you for your time gentlemen, you've been most helpful. I do believe that is Inspector Lestrade that just arrived."

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><p>"...So when they received the tip-off they dumped me at the scene, planted the knife and ran for it."<p>

Back in Scotland Yard Mycroft and I were in Lestrade's office, filling him in about all we'd found out. He sat back looking satisfied. "For once, looks like we've got enough for a proper case. I must say I'm impressed."

"A case in all our best interests to solve, I think." Mycroft replied, standing, "Well, I can be of no more use here. I must get back to the office. Good evening Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector." he nodded to us and left.

"I should turn in too." so many days of adrenaline and sleepless nights was finally beginning to catch up with me. I stood and was about to head out, when he called me back, "John."

"Yeah?"

He sighed heavily, "I'm sorry. I pinned all the blame on you all too quickly and ignored all the other solutions staring me in the face. I know you'd never betray Sherlock so willingly, but I was blind to obvious a fact. Let me apologise, for what it's worth."

I could hear the dejection in his voice, and was oddly touched. I grinned at him, "You had your reasons. You had damn good reasons, and... I reckon I doubted myself a fair few times. It's okay." he retuned my grin, and we said our good byes.

Trudging out into the twilight I was struck with an idea – I was free now. I could go where I wanted without getting locked up. That meant there was one thing left to do.

I hailed a cab and started for the hospital.

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><p>Dark had set in by the time I arrived, and the lights shining out of the front windows looked almost welcoming. I made my way inside and up to the coma ward, where I found Sherlock in a corner. I hadn't seen him for 5 days, and then he had been beaten unconscious. He looked a damn sight better now: most of the bruising round his face was fading and the dirt had been washed away. He was paler and a touch thinner than usual (if that was possible. Maybe just.) but he had a look of calm about him. At least he was getting some sleep at last.<p>

I stood at the end of his bed and gazed at him in silence. Then I spoke: "How you doing?" I asked softly. It probably should have felt strange, talking to a coma patient, but somehow it didn't. "We've been busy. I solved a case a few hours ago. With the help of your brother of course. I know you won't like that but hey, I'm not expecting you to. Granted, you could probably have solved it on your own in an hour but a case is a case. I reckon you'd have been kind of proud of us. Not that you'd admit it as long as you lived, but it would have been there, in the back of your mind somewhere. I guess you taught me well – 'cause I listened, Sherlock. To everything you had to say, and... looks like a lot of it went in somewhere." I moved along, so I was leaning on the wall next to his head, "And now I reckon it's time you listened to me for a change: you're going to wake up. I don't care what happened to you, or what injuries you've got, your going to fight through it all and heal. We need you back here Sherlock. You may not give a shit about us but we're your friends, like it or not and we would appreciate it if you stopped sulking in there. So you are going to wake up, and very soon you will be sitting up giving the nurses hell and telling us how stupid we all are. Don't make me tell you again now." I studied him for another minute, before turning and walking away, back into the night.

Two weeks later, he was doing just that.

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><p><strong>The End :)<strong>

**One last review? For old times' sake? Love you all xxx**


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